Play Me Like a Melody
by PokeyDotes
Summary: She really has no idea how this happened. This is so much more than harmless flirting. This isn't trying to one-up one another, playful innuendos, or shameless back and forth. This is real. This is her, and this is Deeks. (Pure Densi)


**Listen folks, this a Densi romance fic of the adult variety. It earns the 'M' rating. If you are not a fan of that sorta thing or you are easily offended, I suggest you take advantage of your browser's back button. Flamers will either be ignored or openly mocked, depends on whatever mood I'm in.**

Play Me Like a Melody

She really has no idea how it happened, how one bad day turned into this, but here they are. He's sitting on the floor, his back against the couch. She's practically in his lap, her back leaning into his chest. She can feel his breath on her neck, the steady tempo as he breathes in and out, igniting a fire across her skin. She knows he feels the goose bumps, feels the involuntary shiver as his fingers dance down the length of her left arm, gently wrapping around her wrist.

It's at that moment that she remembers he had mentioned he played the violin. It's as his fingers move against that sensitive pulse point, that smooth spanse of skin where wrist meets palm that she feels it, the telltale roughness, fingers calloused from years against a string.

She inhales, her breath catching only once as his other hand works its way from the floor to her side, fingers tapping along her ribcage, keeping beat to a silent rhythm. She closes her eyes as she feels the music, feels that pulse progress through her body as his fingers continue to move, one hand at her wrist, the other at her side.

She's the violin.

She really has no idea how this happened. This is so much more than harmless flirting. This isn't trying to one-up one another, playful innuendos, or shameless back and forth. This is real. This is her, and this is Deeks.

She sits still for a few more moments, just feeling as he continues to breathe, as she imagines the song he's playing against her.

Before she has a chance to change her mind, to come to her senses and list all the reasons why this is wrong, she turns, pivoting in his lap so that she's facing him, her nose an inch from his.

"Kensi?" he asks, his voice thick and deep, far away from his normally smooth tenor. His eyes are darker, a deeper blue, and for a moment, that's all she sees.

"Just…" she says, trying to find the words but fearing they won't be right. She looks to his lips, and shivers when his tongue darts out, his lower lip following it back to rest between his teeth for a brief moment. She brings her hand up, her palm resting against his cheek, his scruff tickling her as she lets her thumb slide across that lower lip, feeling the wetness, the softness. "Just…don't talk, okay?"

He nods slowly, and she fights a smile as she feels him shiver beneath her. Her eyes slowly darting from his lips to his eyes, she moves, letting her legs rest on either side of his, her knees pushing against the couch as she straddles him, his hands rising to rest on her thighs.

She can tell he wants to say something, she can see the question in his eyes, but she doesn't want him to talk. She doesn't want him to ask her if she's sure, because truthfully? She isn't, but she doesn't want to stop either.

She lets her hand trail down his neck, feeling him swallow as her fingers trace their way to his collarbone, fingertips dipping beneath his t-shirt. She can see his pulse racing, a techno beat of fear and want. It matches hers, and for a brief moment, she wonders if he can see her heart beating.

His hands slowly start to move up her thighs, his thumbs following the inseam of dark denim before he stops, his eyes locked on hers as he raises one hand, calloused fingers sliding across the back of her neck, tangling in loose curls as he brings her to him.

It's tentative at first, a light pressure as his lips meet hers. But then that other hand keeps going, heavy fingers tracing denim, circling around, teasing her lower back, her skin heated from an overload of senses, of touch.

She feels his fingers start to work their way up, tickling her spine, the material of her shirt moving across his knuckles. She allows instinct to take over, deepening the kiss, pushing against him, her fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer.

_Don't think about it_, she tells herself, hoping he's doing the same, scared any moment he'll tell her to stop. She pulls away, long enough to pull her shirt over her head, the cool air bathing her, and there are more goose bumps, more shivers as she watches his reaction.

The corner of his mouth moves, a small smile, appreciative and charming all at the same time. His eyes are on her, watching as she breathes, as her body moves with that natural rhythm—breathe in, breathe out. He lets his hand circle round, his thumb tracing the edge of her bra, sliding over the thin material, sensitive flesh reacting to his touch.

His smile widens as he feels her twitch against him. He moves his thumb again, meeting her eyes when he gets the same response as before. But then she decides to up the game. It's more like an increase in dynamics instead of a change of tempo, except they're both still quiet, the TV muted in the background, the shadows from the screen dancing across the living room. She brings her hands together, two fingers and a thumb, pinching the clasp, the straps hanging loose on her shoulders.

She doesn't move, just waits, waits for him to decide if this is really going to happen. Slowly, so as to maintain the pace she's set, he lifts his hand and brings it back to her neck, letting it fall, feeling the straps catch on his fingertips as they smooth over her shoulder, leaning forward to kiss the path he's made.

And then there's no more doubt. She's absolutely sure she wants to do this, that she doesn't want this to end. She feels the heat of his breath, the warmth of his tongue. She closes her eyes, fisting her fingers in his hair as those calloused hands come back into play. She's loosing herself, letting him take control, and if her mind could focus on anything other than what he's doing, she'd probably laugh—laugh, because he's always giving her a hard time because _she's the one_ that has to be in control.

Before she even realizes that it's happening, he's moving them, shifting so that she's lying on her back, her knees bent, him balancing above, the material of his shirt hanging low, brushing against bare skin.

She feels for his belt loops, allowing them to be a starting point as she travels upwards, letting her nails gently scrape over defined muscle. It only takes a moment for him to get the hint, for him to sit back on his heels as he finishes what she's started, tossing his shirt towards the couch, not even looking to where it falls.

Now she smiles, and it's all excitement and nerves, a hint of appreciation as she lets her eyes wander. Her fingers trace over scars, gentle but thorough, and her smile turns sad, her mind taking her back to that day. But then he stops her, taking her by the wrist, just as he had when this whole thing got started.

He kisses her knuckles, kisses her palm, her wrist. Nothing drastic, just a light pressure, the feel of his lips, the tickle of scruff, but it's enough to start that fire again, to send more shivers, making her want more.

With her free hand, she unbuttons her jeans, her smile adopting a hint of mischievousness when his eyes look down, his crooked smirk making a play when he sees what she's doing. He lets her wrist go, his fingers falling to take over, pulling the zipper nice and slow.

She lifts her hips for him, helping him as he pulls the fabric down. He laughs a little when he removes her boots before pulling her jeans the rest of the way.

"What?" she asks, looking towards her feet to see the source of his laughter. He cups her foot in his hand, his thumb sliding across her arch, and she has to stop herself from jerking away. She's ticklish, but she doesn't want him to know.

"Purple with white stars," he says, describing her socks, "Kinda girly." She arches one eyebrow high as she props herself on her elbows, her hair draping her bare shoulders.

"In case you haven't noticed," she tells him, mirroring his crooked smile, "I _am_ a girl." She's glad she's already lying down, because the look he gives her then, that smile…well, it more than lets her know that he's noticed.

Once her socks are gone, there's nothing left but a pale blue pair of boy shorts, nothing extravagant, nothing she would consider 'sexy'—after all, she hadn't been planning to impress anyone. But he doesn't seem to mind. Starting at her ankle, his palm rubs a course along the length of her leg, the tips of his fingers leading the way, stopping only once they've reached her inner thigh. She forces her breath to stay even, to maintain eye contact as she feels one finger dip beneath fabric.

They say if you cut off one sense, you strengthen others. As fingers continue to move, she forgets all about maintaining eye contact, letting her head fall back, her eyes close. Cut off sight, focus on touch, on what she feels.

She hears the increase in her breathing, uneven short breaths. The TV is still muted, neither one aware that the commercial has ended, that their show has started again. She doesn't pay attention as cars drive by, as a car alarm sounds down the street.

At some point in time, those pale blue boy shorts find their way beneath the couch. If asked later how they got there, Kensi won't be able to give an honest answer. Truth be told, she doesn't even remember them being taken off, her mind too preoccupied by her partner's actions.

That warm breath that had ignited her neck so many minutes earlier promises to send her over the edge now. Her back arches involuntarily, his strong hands holding her hips in place. Her fingers reach for an anchor, for something to hold on to—the couch, the carpet, him, anything to sustain the balance in what she can currently classify as her reality, a steady crescendo composed both of the emotional and the physical.

It isn't until her breathing begins to even out, her muscles loosening into complacency that she finds her voice.

"Deeks…" He cuts her off with another kiss, the tempo slow and somewhat lazy, but deep nonetheless. She feels him press against her and she realizes he's still wearing his jeans.

She can feel him smile as her fingers start to work on his zipper, as her want and need start to arise anew, encouraged by the feel of him above her. It's awkward getting him undressed, trying to shed what's left of his clothing as they continue the kiss, him hovering above, their bodies flush but still not quiet one.

It's strange how actions can be both frantic and slow at the same time, almost desperate in need. There's a few moments where it's all instinct and muscle memory, each getting ready, following the score, knowing what to do simply because it's all been done before—just never with one another. And that's when they pause, when everything comes to a silent stop, a two-beat rest.

They're ready, each where they need to be, but not quite. He's over her, his arms holding him up in a more preferable imitation of a push-up. She can feel him, _him_ right up against _her. _She knows why he hasn't moved any further, why he's yet to give in. It's because after this, there is no going back, no more being just partners questioning the existential existence of an intangible 'thing'.

Because all that was before has just been a prelude, a buildup to what they both want. Both sensing and sharing his slight fear, that tentative uncertainty, Kensi takes it upon herself to once again take control, and for once he doesn't seem to mind. Feet planted on the floor, she raises her hips a few inches off the ground, just a few, but it's the last few needed to give them both what they want.

She watches as dark blue eyes close, as he gives in to his senses, to the feel of her heat and desire. And then her eyes close in turn as the rest ends, as he builds and steadies the rhythm.

Eventually, the duet morphs into a symphony of sounds, measures full of accidentals, tempo changes—a full-fledged harmony years in the making. It turns out, sex follows the same rules as every other aspect of their partnership, their relationship. Because now they're back to trying to one-up one another, each pushing farther, dominating for control, trusting the other to have their back, and giving all they have in return. And just like their partnership, this couldn't be any better.

It's all about touch, it always has been. He holds her close, lifting her off the floor as she takes control of the pace, her hands exploring the back of his neck, the slopes of his shoulders, holding tightly to his arms. Her legs somehow manage to wrap themselves around, encircling him, her ankles crossing as she squeezes, unconsciously trying to keep him where he is, but needing him to move at the same time.

And then it's back, that euphoric balance between the emotional and the physical, only this time she isn't alone. She can feel him right along with her. His head's resting on her shoulder, his breath warming her collarbone. It's erratic, short puffs of air, his mouth wet, an occasional flick of the tongue, a light brush of teeth.

She feels the scream build in her chest before she hears it, and it completely catches her off guard because it's not something she'd usually do. But leave it to Deeks to change that, to take something she's used to, something she thought she had under control and turn it all around. She's come to learn that being partnered with Marty Deeks is a lot like having the rug you're standing on pulled right out from underneath you, only to have the culprit catch you before you fall flat on your ass.

It used to bug her at first, the way he would get under her skin, the way he always seemed to know when something was wrong, when she needed something, and damn it to hell if he didn't always know exactly what it was she needed. It may have bugged her at first, but now, tangled in a panting mess on the living room floor, she's starting to think those little things that used to bug her are the things that she's come to expect, that she's learned to love about him, her partner.

She knows she's probably hurting him, the way her fingers keep fisting in his hair, soft, sweat dampened curls wrapping around her knuckles as she pulls, once again trying to sustain that balance. Her nails aren't long, but she drags them across his skin, working in tandem as his strong hands hold her tightly, his fingers bruising her waist, her hips as he guides her, helping her maintain that rhythm.

That needed balance is once again within reach. Her muscles act of their own accord, narrating her body as she gives in, going along for the ride, waiting for that treasured release. She feels another scream building when those practiced fingers, so full of dexterity, find her again, dancing against her as he brings her to the end. Her head falls back, her eyes close. She feels his release, the involuntary but all too welcome contraction of muscles, those little twitches that signal a calm.

One of her hands is still tangled in his hair, the other holding tight to his forearm. His head is tilted down, his forehead resting on her chest, his nose tickling that spot just between her breasts as he works to steady his breathing. She doesn't move at first, not because she's afraid of what comes next, she just wants to hold on to the calm, to the 'newness' that they've discovered.

It isn't until he lifts his head, lazily planting a soft kiss at the base of her throat that she decides it's okay to move, that talking won't mess everything up. Using the hand that's resting on his arm, she brushes aside the curls threatening to cover his eyes. She smiles at the disheveled looking man beneath her. His hair is a mess, a product of sweat and her hands, his skin is flushed, his pupils wide, and she knows it's all because of her. She knows that little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth is because he's probable studying her with the same appraising eye.

"Can I ask you something?" she whispers, surprised at the heaviness of her voice.

"What?" he says, that crooked smirk never faltering.

"What song were you thinking of earlier?" she asks. He looks down, the way he always does when he's embarrassed, and gives a quiet, breathy laugh. She feels it more than she hears it.

She leans her forehead against his, closing her eyes as she waits for his reply.

"Are you familiar with Vivaldi?" he asks her, his fingers once again dancing up her spine. She leans back, squinting her eyes as she tries to remember whether or not she's ever heard the name.

Figuring she can always google it later, she tilts her head and says, "Sure." He gives her that look, the one where she knows he can tell she's lying.

She watches with interest as he smiles again, his tongue playing along his bottom lip as he thinks of a way to explain it around her lie. "Think of Vivaldi as a kind of Beethoven, only instead of a piano, he rocks the strings." She nods, letting him know she understands, silently telling him to continue. "It's called the Four Seasons. I was thinking of 'Spring'."

She starts tapping her fingers along his shoulder, imitating the rhythm she feels on her back. "Spring?"

He laughs again, "I know, it's not exactly techno…"

"I like it," she says decidedly. He arches a questioning brow, causing her to take offense. "What?"

"Have you ever even heard it?" he asks, and she simply purses her lips and shrugs a shoulder, focusing on the rhythm he's keeping against her spine, trying to imagine what it'll sound like.

"No…" she admits reluctantly. To her surprise, he doesn't laugh, or try to call her out on the failing of logic in her claim to like the song. Instead, he leans back, holding onto her as she still sits in his lap while he reaches for the leg of his jeans, pulling them to him. He fishes around in the tangled fabric for his phone, smiling when he retrieves his prize. She doesn't say anything as his thumb moves across the screen, scrolling through playlists.

He sets the phone on the couch. His hand taps out the rhythm on her back as the one that had earlier played along her wrist begins to dance along length of her thigh. As soon as the song begins, Kensi envisions a Renaissance inspired ball, complete with princess gowns dancing around the ballroom as their princes bow. Romeo and Juliet, Cinderella and Prince Charming. It _sounds_ like Spring, like birds chirping and flowers blooming, and to her surprise, she _actually does_ like it. It's nothing that she would ever have thought she'd listen to, or anything she ever imagined Deeks to have on his phone, but yet…

"I like it," she says with a smile and a great deal more conviction. Deeks smiles in return, his fingers slowing as she leans into him, her body flush with his once more, her lips pressing against his.

"You do?" he asks around the kiss.

"Yep," she answers, pushing against his shoulders, easing him onto the ground.

Eventually, the song ends, the light on the phone fading to black as the two on the floor ready for an encore performance.

The End.


End file.
